


Kushiel's Legacy Ficlets

by PhoenixFalls



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bondage, Character Study, Discipline & Punishment, F/F, F/M, M/M, Marking, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kushiel's Legacy</i> ficlets written for prompts on my tumblr. Various ratings and pairings, which I will include in each chapter title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imriel/Lucius, Kushiel's Scion AU (rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [ilenn](http://ilenn.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: "Imriel/Lucius, an AU in which Lucius came back to Terre D'Ange with Imriel at the end of Scion." Originally posted [here](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/post/80852148396/prompt-imriel-lucius-an-au-in-which-lucius-came-back).

Six months until Helena’s mourning period was over, and Lucius had been granted three of them to help see Montreve home. His father had been swayed by the potential of stronger trade ties to Terre d’Ange; Helena’s father had been glad to take hold of his city again, without having to push the city’s newfound loyalty to Lucius; Helena had agreed that Lucius owed it to the D’Angelines to serve as something like an honor guard after all they had given in Lucca’s name.

But Lucius… Lucius was tired, bone-deep, and uneasy in his skin even though he was now its sole inhabitant, and his mind kept turning to the memory of Imriel’s hand combing through his hair the night before that last battle, Imriel’s low voice spinning an impossible tale by the firelight, Imriel’s chapped lips returning a playful, daring kiss.

Imriel’s eyes, solemn and dark, as Gallus Tadius dropped his death mask and consigned himself to hell, and the bronze echo of wingbeats coming from far away.

So Lucius took his three months and ran, all the way to Terre d’Ange. Montreve was quiet on the journey, brooding, and for once Lucius didn’t push. It was strange to hear Montreve tell his experience of the siege after his reunion with his family, such a different angle on Lucius’s still-disjointed memories, and when the Comtesse excused herself Lucius followed, leaving Montreve alone with his foster father.

But Lucius couldn’t sleep, so when he heard Montreve come upstairs some time later, Lucius slipped out of the guest room to knock on his door.

The man who answered the door, who invited Lucius in, was easy in a way Lucius had never seen. Still worn and thin, but settled, rid of some of his ghosts and newly confident. Lucius wanted that, desperately.

He breathed out “Imri—” and threw himself into Imriel’s arms, and Imriel caught him.


	2. Imriel/Maslin, Kushiel's Justice AU (rated Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [jesatria](http://jesatria.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: "Imriel/Maslin Justice AU- they meet up earlier & go looking for Berlik together." Originally posted [here](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/post/81129155570/kushiels-legacy-imriel-maslin-justice-au-they-meet).

A moment’s hesitation, and Imriel was gone.

Maslin had followed him through shipwreck and imprisonment and endless miles of wilderness. Had accepted that Imriel loved his wife when he saw that how easily Imriel turned his back on the mess he left Sidonie with, letting Kushiel call him toward his vengeance; had accepted that Imriel loved Sidonie nonetheless when he saw how hard it was for him to send her ring back to Terre d’Ange; had accepted that Imriel was actually worthy of Sidonie in that jail cell, when Imriel befriended the Tatar and won their escape without a drop of blood being shed. Had felt at peace with the idea that they would die together in the snow, honorable men pursuing an honorable cause, however vainly.

And then, just as they had both fallen to their knees in defeat, that damn bear showed himself, and Imriel had stumbled after it, and Maslin… hadn’t.

It was failure, and it burned so much more because it was Maslin’s failure alone. Imriel was still heroically pursuing his quest, and Maslin had been left behind.

Eventually, he pushed himself back to his feet and started following Imriel’s trail. And he kept himself moving, never quite able to catch up to Imriel but never losing him either, for eight days, until the smell of smoke and burning flesh let him know that Imriel had succeeded.

When Maslin finally stumbled into the clearing with its tiny cabin on the morning of the ninth day after their separation, he just leaned his head against the wood and sighed. After a moment, he opened the door and found Imriel asleep in a pile of furs.

He was so thin, thinner than Maslin even, which made sense because Maslin had been carrying more of their supply of food when Imriel ran off ahead of him. His face was drawn, his expression grieving even in slumber. Yet still, he was so beautiful.

And then Maslin had to stumble outside, fall to a seat on the front step, because at some point on this journey he had fallen in love with an entirely different Courcel scion than the one he had once thought he was fated for.


	3. Phedre/Ysandre, Punishment (rated Explicit, contains BDSM)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [alba-forever](http://alba-forever.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: "Phedre/Ysandre, Punishment." Originally posted [here](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/post/84249497644/kushiels-legacy-phedre-ysandre-punishment).

Ysandre had a neat hand with the flogger, every stroke graceful, no wasted movement. Phedre watched her in the mirror, lingering over the set of her jaw, stern as a Kusheline priest’s; catching on the line of her back, straight as a sword. There were tears running down her face and each lash wrenched a scream from her dry throat, but Phedre kept her eyes on Ysandre as ordered.

Ysandre didn’t have the heaviest hand Phedre had writhed under, but she had hit on a truly ingenious method of punishment nonetheless: Phedre was allowed to speak, to scream; she was allowed to move within the constraints of the ropes attaching her to the post; she was simply not allowed to reach climax, was, in fact, ordered to give her signale if she was in danger of reaching her peak.

Phedre had given her signale twice already. She was sticky with her arousal and she wished, desperately, that Ysandre had chosen to tie her to the bed instead, on her stomach and with her limbs attached to the posts so that each time she flinched her thighs didn’t rub together maddeningly.

Ysandre’s endurance was impressive. She had laid down so many welts across Phedre’s back and thighs that Phedre could no longer distinguish each welt individually, her entire backside a haze of heat and pain. Yet Ysandre continued her smooth motion, arm rising and falling in the same measured cadence it had been using since the beginning, not a single shiver or twitch betraying her fatigue.

Abruptly, Phedre realized she had nearly reached her crisis again. She opened her mouth to give her signale just as Ysandre brought the flogger down again, and the impact stole her voice. Her eyes slipped shut against her will, and she was just able to choke out “Hyas—”, clenching every muscle against her pleasure. Kushiel’s bronze wings beat heavily in her ears, and Naamah’s pearl seemed to throb in time.

Slowly, her body calmed, inching back from the precipice. Phedre sucked in great gasping breaths, then opened her eyes, blinking away the wash of red.

Ysandre had cast the flogger aside and closed the distance between them. When Phedre met her eyes again, she smiled kindly, then reached up to untie Phedre’s hands. Released, Phedre’s arms dropped, and the rest of her body followed, muscles unable to hold. Ysandre caught her around the waist, then shifted her to the side so they both could fall back on the nearby pile of cushions.

Ysandre rearranged their limbs until Phedre was curled up on her side, head and one shoulder in Ysandre’s lap. She produced a cup of water from somewhere and tilted Phedre up to drink, then took Phedre’s hands in hers and began rubbing them gently to increase their circulation.

Phedre simply lay there, mind filled with a pleasant haze, the surcease of pain and cooling arousal. After a time, Ysandre laid her hands back down and began carding her fingers through Phedre’s hair.

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and fond. “I do forgive you, near-cousin. This is enough penance. You have suffered enough.”


	4. Maslin de Lombelon with the Unforgiven (rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [jesatria](http://jesatria.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: "Could I get something dealing w/ Maslin's time with the Unforgiven, like him connecting w/ his heritage? & 1st person would be great if that's not too much trouble." Originally posted [here](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/post/85187298294/i-see-youre-still-taking-prompts-so-could-i-get).

As a child, I burned.

My mother told me stories of my beautiful, bright-haired father, with the quicksilver mind and generous heart. Everyone else told me stories of my father the betrayer, traitor to the realm and Melisande’s ultimate dupe. Every story, good or bad, built my rage higher.

The Camaelines are cold.

They are high enough to be cool even in the height of summer, but I was exiled there in the deepest part of winter, when autumn was a distant memory and spring not yet visible on the horizon.

I tried, at first, to pit my rage against that cold; it had fueled me, after all, in the orchards of Lombelon and on the practice fields under Duc L’Envers. But as days turned into weeks and the frost seeped into my bones, my rage sputtered, giving way to weariness and depression.

I tried, then, to remember my love of the land, which I had thought defined me; to remember the wind through the pear trees and the warm smell of summer, redolent with pollen. I was L’Agnacite to the core, I thought, my mother’s son under all my rage.

But in those long dark nights, summer seemed out of my reach, and I found it harder and harder to remember my mother’s face.

So finally, I looked to the men around me, men who for once had spoken no word against me, men whose eyes betrayed neither malicious curiosity nor outright mistrust. They were quiet, focused, their attention honed like the blades the took such care of. They diced and gambled and gossiped like any other garrison of soldiers, but underneath that they had a clarity of purpose like nothing I had ever seen.

I did not develop that same clarity of purpose in my time with the Unforgiven; for all my faults, I had done nothing I truly needed to atone for. But surrounded by men who cared nothing for my heritage, with a sword in my hand and ice crunching under my boots, I found for the first time some measure of peace.


	5. Drustan/Phèdre/Ysandre, Anniversary Present (rated Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for [notalwaysweak](http://notalwaysweak.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: "Kushiel's Legacy, Ysandre/Drustan/Phedre, first person is fine, Drustan brings his wife a special gift one wedding anniversary." Originally posted [here](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/post/86165036049/kushiels-legacy-ysandre-drustan-phedre-first-person%22).

Ysandre spoke to Drustan, once, of seeing Phèdre’s marque when it was still raw and new, of reaching out to brush her fingers across the heated skin. Her fingers traced the warrior’s marks on his cheeks, lingered on the one on his brow, their sensitive tips feeling out each place his skin was raised from the process.

It was an offhand comment, not meant imply any particular desire, but Drustan had a fearsome memory and some measure of guilt that Ysandre had so little freedom in her bedroom compared to her countrymen, so he kept it in the back of his mind. Ysandre was not entirely surprised when for their fifth wedding anniversary he presented her with Phèdre, stripped down to nothing and laid out on their bed, hands bound to her feet like she was a deer he had brought in from the hunt.

He explained that he had done things through the proper channels, and presented the contract that he had negotiated for her to sign; Ysandre had to tear her eyes away from Phèdre’s to read, mesmerized by that single scarlet mote. The contract shortly proved just as engaging however.

Ysandre looked back up at Drustan when she reached the most interesting clause. He grinned proudly and displayed several cloth-wrapped tools that Ysandre could not identify, as well as a jar of dye and a scrap of paper with a sketch on it.

It was a simplified version of the cygnet of House Courcel, and the contract in her hand gave Ysandre permission to inscribe if on the thin skin over Phèdre’s hip bone. Permanently.

Ysandre’s heart picked up its pace just at the thought, and beat strongly in her throat, her fingers, her cunt as Drustan showed her what each tool did, as he guided her hand through the motions of cleaning Phèdre’s skin, transferring the design, and then ever-so-carefully laying the first mark with the needles. Even tied, Phèdre squirmed, breathing hard; Ysandre dipped her free hand between Phèdre’s legs to find she was slick, her body throbbing as strongly as Ysandre’s. Her gasp was a delight.

Too soon and not soon enough, Phèdre’s new marque was complete, branding her Ysandre’s for any to see. Ysandre cast the tools aside then began to undress, fingers fumbling her clothes in her haste. Drustan was calmer, capping the dye and moving everything back over to the table, cleaning Phèdre’s skin again, but the line of his trousers was ruined by the insistent press of his own arousal.

They took Phèdre together, untying her then forcing her up onto her hands and knees. Ysandre pushed Phèdre’s head down so she could perform the languissement; Drustan entered her from behind. Ysandre kept reaching out to touch Phèdre’s hip, the blue woad striking against the blush of irritation. None of them lasted long, Ysandre tangling her hands in Phèdre’s hair as she climaxed, Drustan reaching around finger Phèdre roughly and drag her along even as he stilled for his.

After, they lay tangled together in the bed. Phèdre twisted to examine Ysandre’s marque; it was not as sure-handed as Master Tielhard’s work, but Ysandre thought that fit the barbarism of the Cruithne techniques.

Drustan looked sated, pleased with the success of his gift. Ysandre was pleased as well, but something felt unfinished.

"So, husband. Now that I have had some practice, where shall I place my marque on you?"


	6. Amarante/Sidonie, Distraction (rated Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the fifth round of Drabbletag at [femslash100](http://femslash100.livejournal.com) on LiveJournal, for the prompt "Distraction." Originally posted [here](http://femslash100.livejournal.com/1074178.html).

Sidonie reached for her glass of wine and had to bite her lip against the wave of pleasure the little movement brought.

Amarante’s wicked eyes watched from across the table. They were dining privately in Sidonie’s quarters; Amarante had changed into a loose shift for comfort, but she had forbidden Sidonie from changing from her court garb.

She had also forbidden Sidonie from removing what lay beneath her court garb: the softest of silk ropes, which Amarante had wound discreetly around her breasts, her waist, and between her legs earlier in the afternoon.

They had been driving Sidonie wild for hours, through interminable private meetings and public audiences. She had been given permission to remove only the necessary section when she had to relieve herself; beyond that, the only way Sidonie could keep from tumbling over into climax (also forbidden) was to move as little as possible.

Of course as soon as Sidonie placed her glass carefully back on the table, Amarante asked, “Would you pass the rolls, Highness?”

The basket was just out of reach of Sidonie’s arm. Cautiously, she shifted onto her right hip.

The drag of silk across her oversensitive skin was maddening, and Sidonie could not hold back her whine. Amarante was waiting, hand outstretched to take the basket, but Sidonie could not move any further. “Ama—please—I can’t—“

Amarante tsked. “Your self-control is not what it ought to be, Highness.” She stood, grinning. “Come, love, to the bedroom, I’ll take care of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to send me a prompt, check out [this page](http://phoenixfalls.tumblr.com/promptme) on my tumblr!


End file.
